In my rhyme I fable anguish,

Feigning that my love is dead,

Playing at a game of sadness,

Singing hope forever fled,––

Trailing the slow robes of mourning,

Grieving with the player’s art,

With the languid palms of sorrow

Folded on a dancing heart.

I must mix my love with death-dust,

Lest the draught should make me mad;

I must make believe at sorrow,

Lest I perish, over-glad.